44 Barber Street, Windsor | Miguel Escobar

restricted airspace
at your beck and call
the stress of racism —
its entry
into the lexicon
— with us
waiting out of breath for
every new edition
and
guitar electric twang
— hymn
of liturgical pulp fiction
whines
where is
commonwealth on a map
you might look at
44 Barber Street, Windsor
for
revolving doors
in same sense as
farewell being waved
to arms —
in the act of bidding goodbye
to words
now
being bid
stand up for
the enshrined piece of music
— or relive
separation anxiety
in a kind of
life behind bars —
at the bible museum
— a use of the near-death experience
as so much more than just
an excuse
for slacking
an about face
— like most normal people
then wither
from heights — feeling slain
Provence or its corollary all a mood
— toss and turn
it turns out for decades
still
to be found here
happy to have known Tolstoy
I can rest now
knowing
we never need think
of ourselves
as
being apart